When I write, I sit down to an empty Microsoft Word document and wait. Occasionally I will have a topic brewing, but most of the time, I sit patiently until a few neurons fire and initiate digital movement across the keyboard. Many days, it is a quick process. But occasionally, those neurons find themselves slow to fire, perhaps a bit retarded from a night out on the town. The cursor blinks on.

“Jjkljnnn.” Sometimes, an idea slaps me in the face. Or paws the keyboard. Minus the punctuation, that hodgepodge of letters is courtesy of Odie, my Labrador-mutt mix who is equal shares adorable and deplorable.

I have loved dogs since I could first talk. When my mom was pregnant with my sister, I was often asked by cutesy grown-ups, “What do you want, Michael, a brother or a sister?” My response never wavered. “I want a dog!” (Sorry, Megan. You’re great, too!) After years of begging for a Golden Retriever, a parent-child compromise led to Winston, a supernatural Yorkshire Terrier who lived for almost two decades. While in college, I frequently visited the local animal shelter just to walk the strays around the yard.

In 2009, I moved to a house in need of furnishing and being on a budget, I took to Craigslist in search of end tables for my living room. Lo and behold, nestled between couches and ottomans, was a misplaced ad that merely read, “Free Dog.” The link led to a lovable picture of a mutt wearing a T-shirt and an oddly cheery “smile.”

Against better judgment, I set up a time to meet with Odie and his donors. Like a blind date gone wrong, Odie looked nothing like his picture. His body was shaved (a drunken act of his owner, I was told) with the exception of his mane and tail, his skin was peeling from a summer sunburn, and he was covered in wart-like growths, some as big as a half-dollar. When I asked for a leash to take him for a test drive, the woman looked at her husband and said, “Oh, honey, we don’t have a leash, right?” I had a piece of rope in the car, tied it to his collar, and took the 38-pound lion-leper for a stroll around the block. On our return, Odie stopped at my car and wouldn’t go any farther. At that moment, the donors came out with all of Odie’s belongings packed into a bag. Sad eyes, tail wagging, the little bastard sold me.

Odie and I stopped at Petco on the drive home, and while waiting for the cashier, a young girl pointed at Odie’s shaven and wart-laden body and yelled, “Oh my gosh, Mommy, that dog is so, SO ugly! What is wrong with him?” Suddenly, I was the parent of the “ugly kid.”

Over the next few months, Odie settled in to my routine. But then, as if he was afraid of losing his spot in my home, he became aggressive towards strangers literally overnight. Anyone who entered the house was a threat and Odie would attack if not restrained. Having guests became impossible and Odie even played his part in ending a relationship.

I tried obedience training, hired behavioral and aggression experts, and through the generosity of a coworker, even met with an animal communicator, which proved to be just as weird as it sounds. (Without knowing his background, the medium said that Odie had been beaten frequently and he kept asking, “Is this my forever home?”) And as if my “Free Dog” hadn’t cost enough already, he developed a large anal tumor that required invasive surgery. So my crazy, biting dog now had ass cancer. Does life get any better?

Despite pulling through the surgery, the overwhelming suggestion was that Odie should be euthanized because of his behavior. Even with the toll he had taken on every aspect of my life, I just couldn’t pull the trigger.

As a final effort, I decided that I wanted to try Odie on anti-depressants, as I was confident that his behavior was a result of anxiety. Despite a lack of willingness, I convinced my vet to prescribe Prozac. It didn’t appear to have much effect…until the prescription ran out. Oh my. Within days, Odie was hyper, anxious, and irritable. I put him back on the Prozac, increased his dose, and waited.

Gradually, when visitors came into the house, Odie seemed less fearful. He would initially act aggressively, but then would quickly warm up once he perceived no threat. When my friend, Marisa moved in with me, we suddenly had twice as many guests as before. With each new encounter, Odie became desensitized and began to remember faces.

Odie owes his life to Prozac. It reduced his anxious behavior enough to learn that not all encounters are threatening and allowed for repeat company to reinforce that fact. He is almost entirely rehabilitated from an abusive living situation that undoubtedly led to his aggression, and he seems happy, content, and is quite lovable.

His head on my hand as I type this, I can feel Odie’s rhythmic breathing against me as he snoozes. His hair has grown in, his warts have vanished, and he’s now two years cancer free. His loyalty to me is unrelenting and in some unspeakable way, he seems appreciative of his new life. I look forward to his enthusiastic greeting as soon as I walk through the door.

If you are frustrated with something or someone, I encourage you not to give up. The rewards can be numerous, even if the process takes years. And while Odie continues to nap, I’m going to finish this beer that’s wedged between the couch cushions, as I am still in the market for end tables.